Pieces
by dorkysamantha
Summary: Blondie's the kind of girl who waits until there's a trash can to spit out her gum when there's a perfectly open ground for such spitting. In other words, she's no fun at all. And Santana's only got time for fun.
1. Marijuana

**AN: I'm doing it, you guys. I'm writing another fic without having **_**any **_**idea where or how I want it to go. Well, I have a rough idea. I'm a little crazy. Here's the thing: I've been listening to **_**so **_**much good music and reading so many amazing stories lately—I feel inspired! This fic will be about Quinntana and it's my first time exploring their characters in depth and how their dynamic works as a ship. Remain patient with me, beautiful readers. With that said, this story is loosely inspired by some amazing music that makes my heart really happy. Uh… Yep, that's about it. Happy reading!**

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In probably every romance novel that you'll ever read—and the only ones that Santana's ever dared open—everything happens so gracefully. Authors tend to forget about the term "falling in love—" specifically the part about _falling. _They forget, for the sake of keeping their stories mess-free and oh-so-charming, that nothing about _falling _is graceful. The boy and girl slide in love, rather. They twirl and fade and fucking _pirouette _in love. Nicholas Sparks' favorite thing to do is cause problems between two lovers and solve them within 200 pages. No matter _what _the issue or emotional distance, everything is patched up and easy again after 200 pages. It's so simple. And it's not at _all _realistic.

If there's one person in the world who knows the truth about romance novels, it's Santana Lopez. Quite frankly, those stories ignite her pure desire to slice off her own face. There was a point in her life, she supposes, when love sounded like a cool idea. Who _wouldn't _want one like the stories, huh? In hindsight, though, she's made the conscious effort to avoid relationships at all costs. Because she knows that, in the book of _her _life, nothing seems to be solved in 200 pages—especially her feelings. She pretends not to have them, of course, so this isn't usually an issue. The only time she's ever acknowledged the organ beating in her chest proved to be a total disaster. She learned, very quickly, that _love _only exists between binding on white pages and in black ink. In every other sense, it's simply a fantasy that cannot be possessed or felt. People make up good feelings to avoid feeling bad ones: it's a complex form of repression. It's Santana's firm belief that anyone who uses the term _love _is willingly lying to themselves in an attempt to hide away their truth, and it's the same as everyone else's truth: At the end of the day, everybody is alone.

Now that she's accepted this truth and welcomed it into her being, she's a much happier person. Santana lives an extraordinarily simple life by herself, tucked away in a Spanish apartment. Part of her always knew that she'd end up here, in Spain, studying the art of music and not giving a shit about where she came from. That part of her life is over—Life in America is over, and so is every relationship that she's ever had. The girl is a lone ranger, for all intents and purposes. She attends her classes, does her homework, hangs out in bars, and hooks up with strangers. She never sleeps with the same stranger twice, kind of like the way she takes her coffee differently each day. Her life is commitment free and, thus, stress free.

This morning, Santana took her coffee black.

It's now ten o'clock at night; also known as Santana's favorite time. After the business dies down and she gets a second to breathe, she escapes to the alley by her apartment. With her, she takes her keys and a joint—No phone and no wallet. It's not like she needs the phone, anyways, since nobody's trying to reach her. Getting high in the alley is wonderful, because there is nobody there to interrupt her thoughts. There are no noises but the ones she chooses to hear. During the day, she is forced to hear the monotone voices of her professors and the way too chirpy ones of classmates. She hears car motors and the shuffling of papers and everybody around her breathing through their mouths or chewing their food too loudly. Here, in her favorite place, she hears only the things that she keys into.

Tonight, it's the bass of a stereo from an upper level apartment in the building to her left. From what she strains her ears to hear, it's another terrible Spanish song. She's heard too many of them since her move here, not that she is entirely shocked by this. Truth be told, though, San was mildly unaware of how _awful _some Spanish music is. Still, the music offers her a beat to which she taps her boot-clad foot. She reaches into the pocket of her leather jacket and digs around for her joint and lighter.

Marijuana is, truly, a beautiful thing. This thought crosses her mind at least once a day, when everything that's ugly melts away and a new kind of clarity envelops her. Every now and then, she wonders if being high is what love feels like. That's the way it's described sometimes, right?

Then again: love is fake.

Had Santana known that a stranger would interrupt her peace and quiet, she would've picked a different alley. It's not like she woke up and had some sort of intuition, though, that today would be different. She's been coming to this alley every night for almost a year, and nobody's ever bothered her. Tonight, though, she showed up. "She," being a blonde stranger whose beauty knocked the fucking air right from Santana's lungs.

From where Santana stood at the end of the alley, she could see Blondie approaching from, like, a hundred yards away. She looked gorgeous, albeit distraught. Playing on her features was an expression of anxiety. San watched the way her hips swung and carried her tight body closer. In the back of her mind, she swore that she'd never seen someone so graceful in their movement. It seemed as if the stranger knew every muscle in her body, even when she was doing something as simple as walking. Santana may not believe in feelings, but she can definitely appreciate aesthetic beauty. _If _she was the kind of person who pursued relationships, maybe Blondie would be an object of interest. Otherwise, she was simply a prospect for tonight's hump-and-dump. Needless to say, Santana didn't expect the stranger to look up from her feet and actually _make _eye contact. Her jaw clenched, but she showed no signs of remorse—Why _would _she regret eye fucking someone who was quite obviously fuckable? It was _her _fault for looking like that.

And then she stopped walking right before Santana. For a beat, there was nothing. The two of them exchanged uncomfortable glances while Blondie dug around for her phone and began dialing a number. Santana's brow was furrowed with annoyed confusion.

"Couldn't have made your phone call somewhere else?" she sneered, giving Blondie the up-and-down. "This space is kind of occupied."

Blondie looked up from her phone with a raised eyebrow. "Oh," she responded coolly, her velvety voice biting at Santana's ears and catching her off guard. "I'm _sorry. _I didn't realize that this alley was reserved for entitled stoners. Forgive me for _intruding. _You'll be happy to know that I'm leaving soon. I'm stopping to dial a phone number and throw my gum away, not that I have to answer to you."

Curiosity played at the corners of Santana's mouth. Her eyelids fluttered, a breathy giggle slipping past glossy lips. "Let me take you home," she offered after Blondie threw her gum away and was refocused on her phone. That bitchy attitude _had _to make for an excellent time in bed.

She looked up and narrowed her eyes at Santana before allowing a toothy grin to spread across her face. "No," she whispered before brushing past San and continuing on her way.

Santana didn't bother to look back and watch her walk away. She also didn't waste any time feeling like she'd missed anything special. After all, Blondie's the kind of girl who waits until there's a trash can to spit out her gum when there's a perfectly open ground for such spitting.

In other words, she's no fun at all. And Santana's only got time for fun.


	2. Moron

**AN: I have to say one thing before this chapter begins, and that is that I am constantly humbled by the spirit of this fandom. This is my third fic, and I continue to be amazed by what love and support you put through. Never in a million years would I expect followers/reviews/favorites so soon, and I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. Writing is what I love to do, and your support and nice words make my heart grow a zillion sizes. You are all lovely people. Thank you.**

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Santana took her coffee with skim milk and two sugars this morning.

She's grown accustomed to hating mornings. It's charming, almost, the way she's tempted to smash her alarm clock into a thousand tiny bits and pieces. On this particular day, it was about five rounds with the snooze button before she could drag herself from the warm embrace of comforters and feather pillows.

Whether she'd like to admit it or not, San loves the commute to work. Just because she's got no consistent relationships doesn't mean she can't enjoy people. She likes to stand at the very back of the bus and imagine what those around her are thinking. This morning, an old man was knuckle-deep in his right nostril before he noticed that Santana caught him. He frowned and blushed; Santana laughed out loud.

She keeps a kind of frown in place all day because cheery people make her want to die. Anyone who smiles for more than five seconds at a time is either hiding something, or too sheltered to understand that there's such thing as being _too _happy. Santana enjoys bullying those people.

Just as she hadn't expected anyone to interrupt her time in the alley last night, she wasn't expecting anyone to throw her off her normal course of action today. By the time she smashed the snooze button for the fifth time, it hadn't occurred to her that Blondie would show up again—Especially in class.

That's the thing about meeting significant people, though: You can never see them coming. The world doesn't offer trumpets or neon signs to warn you of an impending life change. They simply show up, unannounced, and fuck shit up.

Blondie appeared in American Literature class today. Front and center desk like a freaking kiss ass. Santana stopped in her tracks upon entering the classroom and spotting her. For a moment, her eyes widened, but she regained composure before being noticed. Normally, she'd sit in the back row of seats and throw tiny pieces of paper at the people in front of her. Today would be different, though—How _could _she sit so far from someone who intrigued her so much?

" Gonna shoot in the dark here and assume that you're following me," she greeted with a smooth tone, sliding into the desk chair right beside Blondie.

She looked up from the book that she was reading, confused expression in tact, and quickly made her displeasure with Santana's presence known. "_You,_" she murmured, narrowing her eyes with a clenched jaw.

"Yes, _me,_" countered Santana, sitting up straighter and leaning over to rest her chin in her hand. "We've _got _to stop meeting like this. If you want in my panties, then all you've got to do is ask."

A beat of uncomfortable silenced passed before Blondie furrowed her brow and shook her head. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

Santana raised her eyebrows. "What am _I _doing here? 'Scuse me, Goldilocks. I've been sitting in the back of this classroom, terrorizing _my_ classmates, for almost two years—And I've never seen you. Seems as if _you _are the intruder. So, now that we've clarified: What are _you _doing here?"

"You go to school here…" Blondie repeated, frown tugging at the corners of her perfect lips.

"You know," San started with a sigh, "You're not doing a super job at dissipating the stereotype that blondes are morons. _Yes, _I go to school here. We've established this already—twice. What I wanted was _not_ for you to repeat after me like an episode of The Wiggles. I want you to tell me what you're doing here. Try again."

Santana's never been a people person.

Another span of silence stretched between the two, during which Santana got a chance to carefully count the strands of hair framing Blondie's face. Maybe she was a moron but, God, she was beautiful.

"_I _go to school here," she responded after glaring at Santana for a sufficient amount of time.

"Since when?"

Blondie offered an eye roll of her own. "What the Hell do you think? You've never seen me before, so use your deduction skills. It's poor form to call someone a moron and then act like one in the next breath."

That.

_That_ is what piqued Santana's interest last night, and it's what was piquing hers at the moment: Blondie's attitude. It was the way she held her own and gave Santana _exactly _what she dished out, which was a whole lot of relentless sass. What Santana didn't know, of course, is that this strength would be what ultimately made Blondie different from everyone else.

San swallowed the embarrassment of being called out on her own idiocy and masked it with a curious grin. "Why don't you tell me your name? Are you studying abroad, or what?"

"See," Blondie started, shaking her head and mocking deep consideration, "I _would _make pointless small talk and forget the fact that you're a raging bitch, but I don't want to."

"So you're not going to tell me your _name? _That's not small talk. It's just your name."

"Are you going to lose sleep over it?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"_Yes, _really. Just tell me your name," Santana huffed.

Blondie smiled. She knew that she'd succeeded in ruffling Santana's feathers. "No," she chimed in a sugary-sweet tone.

San rolled her eyes in response. "Fine."

And then she got up and resumed her position in the back of the classroom.


	3. Unfun

**AN: Sorry for not writing the next chapter sooner, you guys. I'm a super busy college student, **_**plus **_**I'm really important in a lot of people's lives. I didn't forget about this story, though—No worries! It may be a few days in between updates, but I won't abandon you. Pinkie swear. You're all lovely. As always, thank you for the updates. Enjoy chapter three.**

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They've developed the _adorable _habit of ignoring each other every day, save the occasional glare here and a sneer there. As if it wasn't clear enough before, Blondie and Santana have settled comfortably into the notion that friendship is _not _in the cards for them. In fact, San finds great pleasure in hating the other girl. It's entertaining, truly, to discover new ways that she can ignite a scowl from her. She's really sexy when she's shooting daggers at Santana with her gorgeous hazel eyes, and it offers _great _visuals for the imaginary angry sex that they're having together.

Of course, life sucks and curveballs happen and nobody is _ever _planned for them. Today is one gigantic curveball.

Class is almost over, an hour passed and a half hour remaining. Santana had spent the past fifteen minutes counting the number of ways she planned on getting Blondie to share her name, and all of them included her fingers and/or her mouth (C'mon—the girl is eternally horny). Unfortunately, though, she was snapped from her reverie when the professor announced a group assignment.

"…and I will be choosing your partners," is what caught San's attention. She immediately looked away from Blondie's messy bun and over at the professor.

"Say _what_?" she spoke up, a little too loud, as her eyes widened with anxiety.

The professor was less than impressed. She scowled at Santana before repeating herself. "I _said _that I will be choosing your partners. If you were paying attention, you would've heard me the first time, Miss Lopez. Is there a problem?"

Santana shook her head incredulously. "Uh—_Yeah, _Teach. I have a huge problem with you choosing my partner. That's totally middle school, don't you think? We're all adults here; I think we're capable of deciding who we want to work with. And, frankly, I can't stand most of the people in here. So I'm going to offer a gentle suggestion that you let me work alone. Unless you want my wrath to be unleashed upon the masses."

By now, the whole class was staring at her. She didn't notice the amused smirk on Blondie's face. "You can take a failing grade then, Miss Lopez," Professor responded coolly.

"Ugh," Santana groaned, rolling her eyes and quickly assessing the potential impact of a failing grade on her final average. "You know what? _Fine. _Whatever. I don't care. Stick me with one of these nerds. They'll hate their lives, though, so you'll be responsible for their eventual suicide."

Nobody offered Santana any more attention. Everyone was ignoring her—even the professor. That was kind of how her rants ended, whether she realized it or not. Within the next few minutes, partners were being assigned. As time passed, San became increasingly aware of the fact that her name and Blondie's hadn't been called yet.

_No, _she thought to herself. _If I get paired with the uptight Daddy's girl, I'm going to fling myself into the nearest volcano._

"….Santana Lopez will be working with Quinn Fabray," she heard. It wasn't until Blondie frowned that San realized that her name was, in fact, Quinn—and that they were partners for remained of the semester. Her chest tightened, jaw clenched as she tried to keep her composure.

She spent the rest of class stewing in her own misery. Her life was an actual joke, she'd decided. How the _hell _was she supposed to work with someone who was so impossibly prissy—never mind coexist? Too distracted by her own pouting to realize that class was over, Quinn was the one to catch her attention again.

"_Lopez,_" she greeted with a curious smirk, towering over the latina with crossed arms. She was probably just as annoyed as Santana was, and the only thing giving that away as the way she blinked five times in two seconds.

Santana looked up at Quinn through her eyelashes with pursed lips. Sure, she was less than pleased about the pairing, but Santana was never one to let anyone know that they affected her mood. "Hello, _Quinn,_" she replied through her teeth. "As luck would have it, we're stuck together for another six weeks. How freakin' splendid is that?"

Fabray quirked an eyebrow. "Is it exhausting?" she asked. "Being so cynical and _obnoxious _all the time, I mean. Do you find yourself exhausted at the end of every day?"

"I don't know," San shot back. "Do you find it exhausting to be a better-than-thou nose up _bitch _all the time?"

"Your language is disgusting," Quinn replied, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "If you want people to respect you, you won't swear so much. It's poor form."

Santana's eyes narrowed. "In case you haven't noticed, Quinnderella, I don't give half a shit about who _respects _me. Only thing I care about is getting my way."  
Quinn smiled, and it annoyed Santana more than she let show. "That's sad," she said simply, nodding her head. "That you don't care about being respected. I'm sure it's nice during the moments when you let strangers into your panties. It must have made you feel very sad when you realized that you've officially lost count of the number of strangers who've been in your bed, though."

"Shut _up_," Santana almost yelled. She didn't appreciate being judged and, in that precise moment, she was feeling slightly vulnerable. "You don't know me, Regina George. Stop talking before I dropkick you into another dimension."

Quinn sighed, shaking her head. "Whatever. Give me your phone number so I can contact you about the project this weekend. I can't talk about it right now. I have places to be."

"Stop using the project as an excuse to score my digits. I told you before that I'll show you a good time as soon as you shut your mouth and stop acting like a stuck up princess." Flirting was Santana's way of ignoring the fact that Quinn had momentarily wounded her ego.

"Would you shut _up,_" Quinn replied, her expression one of disgust. "The less you annoy me, the easier this will be. Give me your phone number and make this simple for both of us."

Santana rolled her eyes. "You're, like, 500 percent _unfun._"

"_Unfun _isn't a word, Dora. Phone number."

It took a second for Santana to resist ripping the other girl's hair out until she could muster up a response. "Nine, eight, one, one, two, zero, three."

"….two, zero, three," Quinn repeated, jotting San's number down on a pad of stationary decorated with flowers before looking back up with a sugar sweet smile. "Perfect. I'll text you tomorrow. I'm sure it'll be just a _pleasure _to work with you."

"Oh, I'm sure," San sneered back before rolling her eyes one more time for good measure.

And then Quinn turned on her heels and practically _pranced _from the classroom. It was the only time that day that Santana liked to see her—when she was walking away.


End file.
